A Subtle Song
by Pheonicia
Summary: The King of Worms reflects on his life, his plans, and his peers.  Set during the end of the Mages Guild story arc.  Enjoy!


_Author's Note: Oblivion and the Elder Scrolls are owned by Bethesda._

* * *

**The Song of Pelinal**

_(And it is said) that he emerged into the world like a Padomaic, that is, borne by Sithis and all the forces of change therein. Still others, like Fifd of New Teed, say that beneath the Pelinal's star-armor was a chest that gaped open to show no heart, only a red rage shaped diamond-fashion, singing like a mindless dragon, and that this was proof that he was a myth-echo, and that where he trod were shapes of the first urging…_

_…(And it was) during these fits of anger and nonsense that Pelinal would fall into the Madness, where whole swaths of lands were devoured in divine rampage to become Void, and Alessia would have to pray to the Gods for their succor, and they would reach down as one mind and soothe the Whitestrake until he no longer had the will to kill the earth in whole. And Garid of the men-of-ge once saw such a Madness from afar and maneuvered, after it had abated, to drink together with Pelinal, and he asked what such an affliction felt like, to which Pelinal could only answer, "Like when the dream no longer needs its dreamer."_

* * *

**Where were you when the Dragon Broke?**

_"The Three Thieves of Morrowind could tell you where they were. So could the High King of Alinor, who was the one who broke it in the first place. There are others on this earth that could, too: Ysmir, Pelinal, Arnand the Fox or should I say Arctus? The Last Dwarf would talk, if they would let him. As for myself, I was here and there and here again, like the rest of the mortals during the Dragon Break. How do you think I learned my mystery? The Maruhkati Selectives showed us all the glories of the Dawn so that we might learn, simply: as above, so below."_

-- Mannimarco, God of Worms, Necromancer

* * *

A scream rent the cold air, the sound echoing and reverberating off the cave walls until it sounded as though there was an army, a host of men, crying out in pain. He'd heard such sounds before, been the cause of such sounds before, and the memories pleased him. 

Memories. Lifetimes worth of memories, Ages worth of memories, many of them not his own, ran under the surface of his mind. The knowledge they held, the subtle connections they forged, were the underpinnings of his power. It had all started with the smallest glimmer of understanding, the soft murmur of an ancient song. And then the Dragon had broken, and Nirn itself had changed.

The noise stopped and sudden silence descended around him. But there were things to be heard that the ear could not detect. The groan of the world, weary with age, abused by the working of mortals, was a low thrum in his mind. And the faintest whispers - as his followers prayed to him, invoked him, and even blasphemed him - swathed his consciousness like a layer of the softest gossamer, such a gentle pressure and yet an undeniable presence.

He did not shift his weight, or sigh, or fidget as he waited. His body remained still, the breathing so slow and shallow as to be undetectable, the heartbeat so faint as to not even be there. Lich, they called him. Undead, they named him. They could not see him for what he really was, though he had told them. He'd told them everything, revealed the secrets of the Ages to them, and still they did not understand.

And so they sent their best warriors to kill him, sacrificed their lives in vain, for they could never kill one who could not be killed. Immortal, enduring, unending – how could one hope to destroy an 'ada?

The Mages Guild, with their talk of Dark magic, their ban of Necromancy, and their war against his servants, was of no concern to him. He had handled far worse than anything the current Arch Mage could possibly pit against him. There was no Arch Magister who could compare to the might and fury of Vanus Galerion.

The name conjured up visions, ghosts of the past, flashes of a life that a different version of himself had lived. Images of crystal towers, webs of magicka surrounding everything, the threads of Mundus and Aetherius exposed – the faintest strings of the strongest power, floating away before they could be plucked. The harder one grasped the quicker they dissolved, leaving nothing but the subtle yearning for what could have been.

But he had learnt how to draw on them, to entangle himself among them. It was a simple matter, a mystical paradox that few Psijics knew, and even fewer understood. By refusing to try and lure them nearer, by stilling the desire to seize them for one's own, they would move closer and envelop one in their mysteries, infuse one with their riddles, and reveal the hidden secrets of the world.

The more he had learnt the less he'd wished to, and so his knowledge had grown. Whispers had come to him, unbidden in the night. Tales of the Three Thieves, stories of Shezarr, and the murmurs of the Marukhati had all spoken to him, the words a torrent of nothing, vague and nonsensical.

Until the Eight Stars had fallen from the sky, the Dragon broken, time moving in all directions. Armies fought and died in places that didn't exist. The world changed colour, and yet nothing was altered. Men grew young and mer grew old as amongst them the Aedra walked on Nirn.

It had been a dream, a nightmare, for all the lands. Every step, every breath, changed something. Creation, destruction, upheaval, and stasis battled over everything. And through it all he had kept silent, his mind open to the secrets that came through the mists of time. The past and the future were forged and remade as the present existed in tandem with itself.

For one thousand and eight years he remembered the song, and sang it to himself as he watched Nirn slumber in madness.

_Like when the dream no longer needs it's dreamer._

Footsteps, cautious and measured, woke him from his reverie, though his mind had never wandered. Even now he existed in paradox - his life stretching out in death, death unavailable so long as he lived. For he had seen too much, and that which was seen could never be unseen. And so he could not be unmade.

The Arch Mage was close. The faintest glimmer of power, the taint of magicka, rolled out of the corridor and over the dark and silent waters of the cavern. He could taste it in his mind, savour it's unique composition. This was something far subtler than he was used to.

His children, the neophytes who sought power over life and death, the ability to suppress Kyne herself, were brash and bold. They proclaimed themselves as they raised the flesh of the fallen and shouted out his name in supplication and rapture. No matter how often he counselled them to still themselves and to learn the importance of quiet they refused to yield, convinced in their superiority and their shortsighted aims. So few of them ever learnt that zombies and black soul gems were merely the start, rather than the end.

Rare among them were those who chose to listen to him. Once enlightened they would shut themselves in solitude and try to force the answers to questions that could not be asked. Again, most did not heed his words that knowledge could not be commanded, bidden as a servant to a master, but only yielded to like a willing slave.

And so even fewer ever learnt the next set of secrets, allowing them to leave their mortal bodies behind as they became beings of pure magicka. Liches – the name chosen by Galerion, common now in all tongues.

Vanus had slumbered with the rest, and when Nirn had finally woken from the centuries of dreams the Psijic had found Mannimarco the same, though all else had been changed. There were others who had also remained untouched by the fall of Auri-El, but they would not speak of what they had seen.

Only Mannimarco had tried to share the knowledge with the others, to teach the Psijics that which could not be taught. But Vanus had been jealous, and grew frustrated with Mannimarco's power, and had denounced him as a devil. So thoroughly did Vanus deny the truth of his words that he caused Mannimarco's exile from Arteum.

Upon his arrival on Tamriel he had been drawn to the soft magics of those of High Rock. The blood of the Ayleidoon ran in their veins, and they supplied him with what he needed to continue his studies, to further his research into the concepts of life and death. For as much as he knew Mannimarco had not yet fully understood what he had learnt. Experimentation had been necessary.

And his acolytes had worked with him, searching out the powerful artefacts he could feel with his mind. Though the threads were harder to see in Tamriel they had remained, and he'd been able to divine the location of the physical reminders the 'ada had left during the time they walked the world.

Word spread, slowly but surely, and the rumours had reached Vanus' envious ears. Unable to convince the Psijics to march with him against Mannimarco he had left the Isle of Arteum, come to Tamriel, and begun his Mages Guild. The need for power had consumed him, but he had been clever in his guise as protector and defender against the forces of darkness. The mer had been subtle in that respect.

Though he had not been subtle when he'd brought an army of battlemages to Mannimarco's home. Galerion had called Mannimarco out, wanting the artefacts for his own, convinced that they were the source of his power.

But he had been mistaken. The former Psijics and their followers had clashed in the cold mountain pass. Life met death in a battle that shook Nirn itself. And both Mannimarco and Galerion had fallen that day.

Only one had risen. The King of Worms, the immortal mortal, had been born in the struggle. And so the first Arch Mage of the Mages Guild had created that which would destroy the last.

A smile, a physical memory from a time when emotions ran freely through him, played subtly over his lips as he watched her approach. Magics - their different tones and timbres sounding like water - moved through his mind. There was the torrent of the power of the Aedra, the babbling of the soul of the Breton, and the delicate murmur as Magnus' gifts trickled into her form. This last note was the sweetest of them all, for rarely had he heard anything so soft before. It was quite enthralling.

No words were necessary, no gestures needed, to render her immobile on the spot. Merely the stretching out of his power, his mind curling around hers, invisible bonds restraining her free will. And like the other times she let him, offering no resistance, putting up no defences. If anything he felt her drawing him in, trying to decipher his mysteries, as she studied him with her smouldering red eyes.

There were few mysteries left to him, as most had already revealed themselves, but she was one of them. He'd been deep in Scourg Barrow, listening to the sounds of his followers, aware of the constant repetitions and exhortations for power to be granted to them – they never understood that power was always theirs to be taken if they'd only look for it. And suddenly over the murmur of unworthy nonsense he'd heard the clear words, the ones he'd longed to hear for Ages, come to him from the west.

_Where were you when the Dragon broke?_

There had been no need for a mark spell, for her soul was his anchor, and he'd appeared to her. This Dunmer, this corrupted Chimer, had been unafraid as she'd gazed at him and repeated her question. The books and scrolls around her – _The Songs of Pelinal, The Five Songs of King Wulfharth, The 36 Lessons of Vivec_ – told him that she was the first one who'd finally figured out the correct question to ask.

He had spoken of the many faces of Shezarr, of the fall of the Three Thieves, of the Greycloaks in the east. The more he had said the more she had listened. Her thirst for knowledge had been insatiable and as she'd held her questions in check in that calm, detached, serene manner of hers he'd come away with the impression of peering into the Void itself, of a nebulous power, a nothing of strength, that constantly sought for more.

Those red eyes had been so familiar to him, and yet completely different. They drew light in, sucked the energy of the world within, drank in all that could be seen. Whereas the ones he'd come to know so well had sparkled with fire, boldly proclaiming her enchanting magics for all to see.

Morgiah. The Princess of Wayrest, daughter of the famed Barenziah and brilliant Symmachus, current Queen of Firsthold. Her lust for power had been untameable, and she'd managed to communicate with him, even once using the Emperor's own agent as a messenger. The deal she'd offered had been too tempting to resist.

The memory of her visit caused a genuine smile, a twisted grin of pleasure, to appear on his face. She'd been a vision of confidence, secure in her beauty and her schemes. Her eyes had given out such radiant heat, such intense energy, he'd been disappointed to find that her tears had been so...mundane. Where he'd been expecting flows of lava to pour from her molten eyes, burning liquid rock to cool and harden over her dark grey stone skin, instead he'd found nothing but clear water, tangy with salt and warm with body heat, cooling in the chill air of Scourg Barrow.

Morgiah. By the time he'd finished owning her, possessing her, putting her in his thrall, she'd been reduced to a heap of broken, bloody bliss. She'd offered her first in exchange for his influence, but she'd given far more than either of them could count.

Her eyes hadn't been sparkling quite the same way, the fires somewhat dimmed by the heady experience she'd gained, when she'd taken her leave. The bargain had been concluded, her King deceived, and the path paved for her triumphant entry into Firsthold as its Queen – The Black Queen, living amongst the golden Altmer. Her messages still came to him from time to time.

Dunmer Queens. They were such remarkable creatures, so powerful in their own ways. Almalexia, Nerevar's Queen, had betrayed him along with his council, murdering him under Red Mountain. She had been mortal then, as had Vivec and Sotha Sil, and had not understood who it was she was killing, or how it was he would not remain dead. They learnt after they'd assumed their godhood, the Three Thieves coming to realize that one could not simply steal divinity from the Aedra. And now the living gods were no longer living, destroyed by the vengeance of the one they'd betrayed centuries ago.

Barenziah, Queen Mother of Mournhold, mistress of Jagar Tharn, lover of Tiber Septim himself. Even in her advancing years she still wielded a remarkable power, forged in the fires of betrayal, experience, and wisdom.

But the mer in front of him was no queen. There was nothing regal in her manner, no taint of nobility on her brow. She was mundane, the most typical example of her race. Skin that was neither grey nor blue, merely dark, like the depths of the sea. Her black hair, muddy with the rich hint of brown, was held back by a matching ribbon, both the colour of ebony.

Shara. She was as far from nobility as a Dunmer could get. An Ashlander, born in the wastes of Vvardenfell, raised through the rise and fall of the Sixth House, still alive after the death of the Living Gods.

She'd seen the Nerevarine when he'd come to her tribe's camp to fulfill the ancient prophecies. The power that he'd possessed had been unlike any other she'd before encountered. Observant and patient, the way that only one who lived in the barren ashlands could be, she'd studied him just as she'd studied Mannimarco. He knew all this, had seen it in her memories as he'd probed her mind during their first meeting. He knew her life better than she knew it.

Her people remembered the truth, understood the mysteries of the Nerevarine. Curious, yearning for more, she'd ended up leaving her tribe, wandering into the cities, living amongst the books and listening to those who liked to speak. Through it all she'd absorbed the hints, not understanding that all of the pieces fit into the same vibrant puzzle, until she'd come across the rare book that contained the only interview Mannimarco had ever given, the message intended for eyes other than her own. And then things began to make sense, the mysteries revealing themselves to her.

For the first time he had finally found one who understood what it was to yield to knowledge like a willing slave. And he'd accepted the role of master, feeding her information, little morsels of knowledge, in exchange for her faithful service.

And faithful she was as she followed his commands, never once doubting his plans, never once questioning his schemes. They had been too subtle for her to comprehend at first, but he could feel that she'd now come to understand them.

Reaching out he grabbed her neck, fingers stiff with unnatural strength digging into the flesh, cutting off the flow of air into her lungs, testing her once more. The grip on her mind relaxed and she was free to respond, to fight him off should she wish. But all she did was continue staring at him, a small hint of a smile at the corners of her lips, even as her heart fluttered in a panic of survival.

Releasing her he watched her chest rise and fall, the lungs working to gulp in as much air as possible in deep ragged breaths. Still the smile remained and he knew she was well pleased with herself. In truth he was pleased with her as well, for she had accomplished her tasks.

Holding out his hand he waited for the first of her gifts. With reverance she placed the large black crystal, sparkiling with the pent up energy of the Breton, into his palm. The cool gem pulsed with a warm magicka. The sensation was sublime.

Hanibal Traven, former Arch Mage of the Mages Guild, crusader against the Dark Arts, had sacrificed his life in a vain bid to protect his protegé, Shara, from Mannimarco's power. The fool of a man had no idea that his beloved Dunmer champion, the mer he'd named the new Arch Mage, was already in the King of Worm's thrall.

He had forseen these events, subtly shaping the life of Hanibal to this end. A few strategically intercepted notes here, small secrets accidentally revealed there, and the kernel of an idea had been planted in the Breton's mind. Falcar's death had been unavoidable and not at all regrettable. The mer had long outlived his usefulness, and Mannimarco could still remember his dying words, the accusations of betrayal, the blasphemies against his God.

Betrayal. That was the underlying theme of mortals, the constant to their short and violent lives. Jagar Tharn had betrayed Uriel, imprisoning him away, assuming the throne in his guise. But the betrayer had then been betrayed himself by his love of a Dunmer Queen, lulled into a false sense of security by the devious Barenziah. She knew well how to betray under the false guise of love, learnt as she'd been betrayed by Tiber Septim himself.

Traven had made his own decision, not understanding that he'd been betrayed by his trusted successor. But to know that the captured soul of Traven, willingly given, was now his to use as he wished, caused a subtle glow of pleasure within him. So rarely did he feel anything anymore other than the physical sensations that his body still registered. Emotions had long grown cold, chilled from neglect and disuse.

But lately as he'd watched these last days of the Third Era he'd remembered them, naming them as long forgotten friends. Happiness, excitement, anticipation - they all flickered in him, as around him the opposite took hold on the citizens of Tamriel.

They cowered in their cities, fearful in their houses, distressed by the terrible news that plagued them. The Emperor and his three sons murdered, gates to Oblivion opening up in the countryside, pouring out daedra, the destruction of Kvatch, not a person left alive. Dire rumours of civil war, the re-emergence of the Necromancers, and the dissolution of the Elder Council had many convinced that they were living in the end times, that the Aedra had forsaken them.

But that wasn't the case at all. While the Aedra and Daedra were holding their little contest, toying with the mortals that inhabited Nirn, they had forgotten about Mannimarco, forgotten that while the Daedra were the Gods of their planes, and the Aedra the purported Gods of Nirn, none of them were Gods in Tamriel.

Dawn was breaking, Dagon's schemes unfolding around him, and the thought made him want to chuckle, could he remember how to do so. Daedra were not subtle in their designs, and it had taken little work to uncover the Prince of Destruction's plots. The Aedra had revealed their secrets Ages ago, during their time on Nirn, and he still remembered them. That was when he'd learnt their mysteries, learnt what is was to be et'Ada.

_As above, so below._

And so below the stars of Aetherius, below the notice of the Aedra, below the contempt of the Daedra, he'd laid his subtle traps. And then he'd waited, his mind always listening to the tales of the world, making note of the events unfolding around him. There was no concept of boredom, or loneliness, or impatience anymore. How could a God be lonely?

Though he'd had need of aid, and he'd found the perfect assistant. Malleable, subtle, disarming - Shara had been ever so eager to mold herself to his liking. And when the time had arrived, the plans of the Aedra and Daedra about to spring into motion, he'd sent her forth.

Uriel had been a trusting fool. He'd been betrayed by Jagar Tharn all those years ago, and hadn't learnt from that mistake. And once more his mind had been turned against him, betrayed by his trust and belief in his Divines. The Aedra were not the only ones who could send visions.

At the crossroads of Fate and determination he'd taken the wrong path, led imperceptibly down it by the gentle mer from his dreams, the nameless Dark Elf prisoner who asked him to speak of stars and destiny. Uriel thought he'd revealed one of his greatest secrets when he'd entrusted the task of finding his heir to her, placing his hope in the meek creature who he felt as though he'd always known.

The Emperor had died that day, giving his life up believing it to be the predetermined course of events, something that he needed to accomplish in order to save his Empire. Mannimarco wondered just how bitter Uriel must be as he watched from Aetherius, finally aware of his mistakes.

For the Amulet of Kings had not made its way to Weynon Priory. The heir, his presence known to those that mattered, the tainted blood of Tiber Septim speaking to all who could hear it, had been destroyed along with the others in Kvatch. The throne was vacant, the wise leaders of the Elder Council reduced to petty squabbling children as they vied for power before abandoning their work and retiring to amass their armies. Civil war was a threat that loomed up, a tidal wave poised to drench Tamriel in a flood of blood spilled for reasons that none would ever feel worth the cost.

But then Dagon had advanced his plans, armies of Daedra pouring out near the cities, and the mortals had been forced to cower behind their defenses, too busy fighting the Prince's forces to turn on each other.

And suddenly a new worry had risen. The Necromancers had attacked the Mages Guild, Mannimarco's followers sacrificing themselves to destroy that which they considered to be a constant threat to their continued existence. He'd not encouraged it, but his followers believed it to be his desire that they do this for him, yet another of their desperate ploys to earn, or perhaps steal, a piece of his power for themselves.

So as they fell, destroyed by the saviour of the Mages Guild, the champion of Hanibal Traven, the proud and mighty Dunmer battlemage, he'd felt no sense of loss. Especially as he'd always planned for it to happen that way.

All the pieces had been lined up, and it had taken the smallest shove, the merest whisper of intent, to start the chain reaction. And now it was time to finish what he'd started, to finally reveal his own mysterious plans to the world.

The Mages Guild, broken and shattered, it's council vacant, the new Arch Mage trusted and beloved by all.

The Aedra, bereft of their champion, their gamble on the wheel of fate having taken a disastrous turn.

Mehrunes Dagon, complacent in his triumph, poised to cement his conquest of Nirn.

The land of Tamriel, disjointed and desperate, its citizens crying out for the aid of someone, anyone, to save them from their plight.

And the Amulet of Kings, the golden chain being slid around his neck by the mundane Dunmer. The red gem nestled against his chest, and he could feel the power through his robes, its magic combining with his own in a harmonious melody. Two notes quivering on the same plucked string, confirmation of what he'd always known.

_As above, so below._

The power and mysteries of the et'Ada, revealed to him when Auri-El had broken, when Mannimarco had seen it all, and by seeing it had been transformed by the very knowledge into one himself. Though he'd not been the only one on Nirn.

The Three Thieves, Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec, had been like him. Except their power had been stolen from the heart of Lorkhan, wrenched by tools they did not understand, and so they'd been unable to hold on to it.

And Pelinal, Shor, Zurin Arctus, the Underking - the many guisees of the same entity, the myth-echo whose chest gaped open to show no heart, the one who had been betrayed by all for his betrayal. Lorkhan, the 'ada responsible for the first urging, the creation of Nirn, the Aedra that had been cast down to walk the lands, his heart stolen from him and hidden under Red Mountain, his power taken from him and bound up into the Mantella.

The one who'd tricked the Aedra into their act of creation had been tricked by so many since. By the Aedra themselves, forced to do their bidding on Nirn, woken from his slumbers to re-emerge in various forms, his path not his own to choose, until they'd abandoned him to wander aimlessly, no longer of any use to them. By the mortals he'd worked with, wrapping himself so tightly up in them that they merged in legend, one undistinguishable from the other. As Lord Nerevar he'd been murdered by his Queen and counsellors. As Zurin Arctus he'd been used by Tiber Septim, the power mad Emperor tricking him into the creation of the Mantella, and the subsequent seperation of his powers from his soul.

He'd lingered on as the Underking, a pathetic shell of restless madness, no longer able to vent his mindless rage upon the lands. During the time when the Mantella had resurfaced in High Rock, when grasping mortals had made a bid for it, when Mannimarco had learnt of it and of the power it could bestow, he'd become aware of the presence of another like him. The province had hummed with their combined energy, the lands and people set on edge by something they couldn't hear, but only feel, something nameless and yet fundamental.

And Mannimarco had watched the 'ada's sorrow as the Mantella had been wielded by reckless mortals, once more remaining unchanged through a break in time, the famed Warp in the West. He'd seen the Underking watching him back, the two the only fixed things as the land and lives of those around them shaped and reshaped before finally coming to rest once more.

But before he could speak to Shezarr, before he could ask the questions that only another like him could answer, the Underking had disappeared. Mannimarco had given his interview to the scribe, the secret message clear to those who understood, hoping that perhaps Lorkhan would hear it.

It wasn't until the rise of the Sixth House that he'd once more felt the presence of the fallen Aedra, this time far in the west. Shara's memories had confirmed it for him - Lorkhan had figured out a way to end it, to get his revenge on all, to finally achieve peace. Binding himself to one born on an unknown day to unknown parents he'd achieved reincarnation as the Nerevarine, wreaked his vengeance on those who had betrayed him, those who had dared to try and claim his power as their own, and managed to destroy the physical embodiment of his heart.

After that Mannimarco had heard no more whispers of the dreamer who'd lost control of his dream. And now he was the last one left, the only 'ada who still walked Nirn. The only one who had possession of the Amulet of Kings, an artifact with powers no mortal could ever comprehend.

It was finally time to reap the harvest of his long labours, to be rewarded for his subtle schemes. As he swept out of the cavern, Shara trailing wordlessly behind, he smiled as he hadn't smiled in centuries. With it he could not only seal shut the jaws of Oblivion, but the holes in Aetherius itself. Nirn would be a seperate plane, ruled over by its God.

Just as the Aedra ruled Aetherius, just as the Daedra ruled their realms, Mannimarco would rule Nirn.

_As above, so below._


End file.
